


The Sanders Games

by HiddenDreamer67



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Children are dying, Death, M/M, Other, Violence, idk what you want from me, it is the hunger games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenDreamer67/pseuds/HiddenDreamer67
Summary: In the 75th Hunger Games, only one male* tribute is chosen from each of the twelve districts:Roman, the preening career from the luxury district. Nate, the muscle career from the defense district. Logan, the surprising volunteer from the technology district. Deceit, the slippery career from the fishing district. Thomas, the legacy tribute from the power district. Elliot, the nonbinary tribute from the transportation district. Peter, the rebellious punk from the lumber district. Magenta, the youngest and prettiest from the textile district. Remy, the sarcastic commentator from the salt district. Emile, the tribute who won't even allow himself a fighting chance from the livestock district. Patton, the sweet ray of sunshine from the agriculture district. And Virgil, the pessimistic one from the coal mining district.Watch these twelve children as alliances are formed, bonds are broken, angst ensues, and one by one they all fall at the cruel hands of their peers.After all, there can only be one victor.





	1. The Reaping

**District 12- Coal Miners**

“Welcome to the 75th annual Hunger Games!” The announcer looked so out of place, a bright kaleidoscope of patterns in the dreary gray of district twelve. Instead of the usual two podiums up in front of her, only one stood in its place. This was due to the fact that every 25 years, a Quarter Quell game was held- one with a special twist. This year, the twist was only one male from each district could compete. Virgil heard there were riots amongst the females in the career districts, but out here people could only sigh in relief. At least half as many kids would die this year.

Of course, because there was only one name being pulled, the announcer seemed to take twice as long. She seemed to be under the impression that this was her ‘moment to shine’, as if any of the tired camera men surrounding the area could give a crap.

Virgil shifted from foot to foot, hunching over to try and hide in the crowd. Just one more year. One more year of this crap and he would be  _safe,_  content to live out the rest of his life as just another capital slave in the mines waiting until the day the tunnels inevitably collapsed on him.

The announcer swirled her hand around, pretending to grab a few papers before pulling out a tiny slip. She squinted at the name, pulling out her reading glasses.

_Just one more year-_

“Virgil Storm?”

_-…shit._

**District 11- Agriculture**

“As you all know, being a tribute is a _great_  honor, a way for all you little districts to give back to the Capital and bring honor back to your home.” The way the announcer’s voice emphasized the idea of this being a reward made Patton feel ill. There was a whimper next to him, and Patton looked to his right to see a younger kid shaking, hardly thirteen.

“Oh, hey, it’s alright.” Patton spoke softly, rubbing his hand down the child’s back. “It’s going to be okay.”

“How do you know?” The kid sniffled.

“I- well…” Patton frowned, for a moment, unsure how to comfort him. “Sometimes you just know things. And you’re not gonna get picked. There’s such an infinitesimal chance of any of our names getting picked, really.”

Patton continued to rub circles into the child’s back, feeling his shaky breaths get more relaxed. Of course, Patton knew it would be impossible for any of them to relax until this horrible moment was over. An unpleasant buzzing feeling filled him as he watched the announcer dig through the papers that represented children’s  _lives._

The announcer looked out at the crowd, holding the paper high as he read the name: “Patton Berry!”

Instantly the kid at his side looked relieved, while Patton felt himself suddenly tense. 

“…I told you it would be alright.” Patton joked, watching the kid’s face fell as he stepped forwards instead. At least with Patton going, no one else in this district would have to die in his place.

**District 10- Livestock**

“Alright, let’s go, move it.”

“Ow.” Emile let out a quiet noise, feeling his side already beginning to bruise from the Peacemaker’s prod. It felt like they were being corralled like cattle, which wasn’t exactly an incorrect statement. Being from the livestock district, Emile knew a lot about that. He had watched wave after wave of animals led to their deaths, and every year a wave of children were led to do the same.

The announcer didn’t even hesitate, looking eager to get out of their ‘dirtier’ district. The streets had been cleaned for the camera’s sake, but there was still a strong smell of manure in the air. “Emile Picani!”

Emile grimaced, watching the crowd part around him to give easy access to the stage. His peers, some once enemies, all looked upon him with pity as he slowly trudged his way up the stairs, feeling like a cow taking itself to the slaughterhouse. He looked out at the sea of familiar faces, trying to commit them to memory one last time. He wondered if any of them would even remember him.

**District 9- Grain/Salts**

“Alright, ladies and gents of district nine, let me hear you make some noise!” The announcer waited, his arms outstretched as if expecting some sort of round of applause. The only audio response given was Remy loudly slurping on his drink, which he considered quite symbolic for the occasion. The announcer was not as amused, but Remy could give less of a crap what he thought. There was only one thing that would make Remy ever care what those capitalistic pricks thought, and it was floating amongst several thousand other slips of paper.

“Jeez, tough crowd.” The announcer whistled through his teeth. “Very well, I suppose you’re all just excited for the main event. Let’s dive right into it, shall we?” He dove his hand into the bowl, fishing around until his pulled out the ‘lucky’ contestant. “Remy…. Aladdin?”

Remy took a moment to take a deep breath, tossing his drink to the side.

“It’s pronounced Aldaine, actually.” Remy threw on a dazzling smile, strutting up the steps to shake the announcers hand. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

The announcer grinned back, and Remy winked at the camera, wondering how many sponsors he just earned.

**District 8- Textiles**

“I’m fine, mom.” Magenta whined, pushing away from his mother as she attempted to tease his hair.

“But what if, heaven forbid, you were  _chosen_?” She shuddered, her fingers once again finding his head. “We need to make you presentable, give you a chance, show off those beautiful golden locks of yours…”

“I’m not gonna get chosen.” Magenta had said, like a fool. Now, in the midst of the crowd, Magenta felt uncertain again. It was only his first year, but he began to feel nervous that he might be reaped anyways. It was possible. He wouldn’t be the first twelve-year-old marched to an early death.

Magenta took a glance to his left, spotting his mother wringing her hands. He understood her concern. After an incident at the textile mill, Magenta was all she had left. They had each other, and it was enough. Barely.

“Ooooh, this is a fun name~” The announcer cooed, building suspense. “Do I spy a Magenta Meadows in the crowd?”

Magenta froze, barely aware of the sensation of being pushed up onto the stage. Distantly he could hear his mother sobbing, but he couldn’t bear to look.

**District 7- Lumber**

It was a running joke in Peter’s gang of friends to declare each other tribute. If somebody acted particularly dumb, they’d get called out: “You’re so stupid. You’re definitely the next tribute.”

Of course, the closer reaping day got, those jokes tended to dwindle down. It felt disrespectful, knowing they were mocking the dead early. Even worse, their dead peers. It was sick, that’s what it was. Peter felt his fists tighten at his sides, frustrated at this hellish system and the fact he could do nothing about it. He had siblings to feed, a life to live. He was done with this crap and couldn’t wait to get out of the reaping forever.

But despite being done with the system, it seemed the system wasn’t done with him. “Peter Graham!” The announcer’s voice grated against his skull.

Somehow, Peter wasn’t surprised to hear his own name. It was just one more thing in a long line of messed-up crap to happen in his life. In fact, despite knowing he might die, Peter was fearless as he stomped up onto the stage. Already he was thinking about knocking out the teeth of whatever smug careers ended up in the ring with him. No matter what happened, Peter knew he wasn’t going down without a fight.

**District 6- Transportation**

“Boys, this way.” The Peacekeeper instructed, herding Elliot in with the rest of them. Elliot bit their tongue, knowing that talking back would only bring pain. It was stupid the way they gendered the group even when only one half of the children were susceptible to murder this time around.

Not to mention, Elliot couldn’t help but feel bitter about the gender binary system of choosing tributes. Elliot wasn’t a ‘he’ at all- long ago they had come out as nonbinary, to the delight of their family.

Of course, when Elliot tried to explain this in a politely worded letter to the Capital, indicating their concerns about the boy and girl tributes (kindly leaving out their opinions about the murder system being literal overkill), it did not go over so well. To put it frankly…well, let’s just say the Capital wasn’t quite as accepting of the change. Frankly any change was seen as a rebellious attitude, and for their strife Elliot’s ballots had been doubled in the sphere on stage.

“Ethan Moore!” The announcer called out, the grin on her face making Elliot sick.

 _That’s not my name._ Elliot thought bitterly, trudging forwards.

“Aww, look at you, such a handsome young man.” The announcer pinched Elliot’s cheek, and they reeled away from the touch. “Your district six tribute, everyone!”

**District 5- Power**

Thomas looked over, spotting his brother Shea in the crowd. The two shared an anxious glance, listening to the announcer drone on and on. For them, the reaping felt more real than most. Five years ago, their older brother Patrick had been reaped. He had done admittingly well, a surprising achievement for someone of District 5. Thomas almost resented him for it; Patrick’s resilience had made Thomas root for the murder of kids, hoping their sacrifice would bring his brother home. It was disgusting.

“Thomas Sanders.” The announcer sounded almost bored as he tore Thomas’ life apart. He saw Shea perk up, worried, but Thomas quickly shook his head. He couldn’t let Shea volunteer for him. It was one thing to lose his own life; it would be a whole other to lose a younger brother.

“I recognize that name, actually.” The announcer tilted his head, looking at the paper another time as Thomas joined him on stage. “Relative of yours?”

Thomas gave a stiff nod. “Brother.”

“Little sibling rivalry there, eh?” The announcer teased, elbowing Thomas nearly off the stage.

Thomas didn’t see it as a rivalry at all. He’d give anything to have Patrick working by his side, helping advise him on how to survive. Patrick had lasted so long, how did he do it? How did he withstand the harsh elements and the gnawing hunger? How did he stomach the atrocities he committed and the nightmares that must follow?

Of course, Thomas couldn’t ask him for advice. Ghosts don’t talk.

**District 4- Fishing**

Deceit appeared to the outside eye a bored teen, picking idly at his nails as the announcer continued their flouncy speech filled with far too many allegories. In reality, Deceit was paying astute attention to the crowd around him. District four was one of three common Career districts, the others being District two and District 1. Here Deceit had been training in secret for the games his entire life, just as many of the calloused children around him had been doing as well. He knew more ways to gut a human than to gut a fish, which was quite an achievement coming from the fishing district.

Deceit gave a bored yawn, using his eyes to trail his chosen route up to the stage. It would be a race, the fastest male to volunteer in this case. Deceit knew his competition would be fierce, but he did not fear these peers. They were mere obstacles on his way to victory, a tripping hazard before his true goal.

When the name was announced, Deceit didn’t even wait for the last name to be heard before he was darting through the crowd. His slim figure was perfectly crafted to slither through the gaps not unlike a snake after its prey. A few hands were reaching up to the stage, but Deceit crushed their stray fingers as he hoisted himself up to the place of honor.

“I volunteer.” Deceit purred, looking very pleased as the crowd glared back at him.

**District 3- Technology/Electronics**

“The games are a long-standing tradition, quite ‘on fleek’ if you will in the eyes of the Capital…”

“Good lord, could she _stop_  trying to relate to us?” A boy next to Logan moaned. Many in the crowd seemed to share in his sentiment, including Logan himself.

However, Logan remained determined to hang on the announcer’s every word. District three was never known for its champions, but for once Logan found himself almost hoping to be chosen. This year, only twelve tributes would compete. That meant outliving a mere eleven children. At the rate of accidents in the electronics lab, Logan achieved that yearly.

“And, the district three champion shall be….” The announcer did a little drum roll on their knees, reaching in to pull out the name. “… Terrence Williams!”

Logan was shocked to find himself deflating. Was he really upset about _not_ being sent to his death? But, then again, he still had two years left in the reaping. It was a slim chance of being chosen then, but if he did get ‘lucky’, his chances of survival would be much slimmer. This year, at least Logan stood a chance. A fairly good one at that, considering his intellect. 

His mind made up, Logan Ward confidently raised his hand, feeling the eyes of the nation on him. “I volunteer.”

**District 2- Masonry/Defense**

Nate grunted, already feeling his peers trying to push him forwards and out of their way so they could reach the stage. He knew everyone thought he was slow, but Nate wasn’t as dumb as they might think. He procrastinated to make sure they all underestimated him, building up muscle in his spare time to become one huge killing machine. It was his last year in the reaping, and Nate was ready to deal some damage.

“Bill Drill!” The name didn’t even matter. As soon as it passed the announcer’s lips there was a surge forward, every eligible male desperate to make it to the stage. Of course, Nate out-powered them all. He stormed forwards, throwing his nimbler contenders to the ground before they could even _think_  about taking his spotlight.

“Wo-ho-ho, you’re a big fella!” The announcer had to crane his neck back to meet Nate’s gaze. Of course, it helped that the announcer was quite short himself. Nate was surprised he had been sent to the strongest district, as it looked like the announcer could easily be trampled. “And just what is the name of this strong tribute?”

“Nate Cooper.” He said in a gruff voice, hoping to intimidate his fellow careers when he leaned down into the mic. It was never too early to make enemies.

**District 1- Luxury/Jewelry**

Roman stretched, casually creating more space around himself and irritating his peers. It didn’t matter. None of them would dare touch him. It was an unspoken rule that this year was Roman’s time to shine. He knew there would be some competition to the stage, of course, the little underlings who dared to try to take his throne. No matter- Roman was more daring and dazzling than all of them combined. He had enough talent to destroy anyone that dared block his path to victory, and enough charm to do it with a smile.

“Brian Hart!” The moment the name left her lips Roman was off like a shot, pushing past the hesitators and elbowing those who almost stood a chance. He valiantly strode up on stage, blowing a kiss towards the crowd to flaunt his victory further. The female half who stood outside the ring looked extra jealous, and honestly Roman couldn’t blame them. He too had been looking forward to a  _real_  challenge. Less than a dozen scrawny nobody’s would have to be child’s play, right?

“My name is Roman Prince.” Roman announced, taking the mic. “And I will be the 75th Hunger Games Victor!”


	2. Welcome to the Capitol

Deceit idly flicked through the channels on the screen, watching the recordings of the other reapings throughout the nation. He wanted to get a read on his opponents, scope out the competition before meeting them in person.

“Oh, good lord.” Deceit groaned, stopping to watch the reaping of District 1 where the princely figure flaunted in front of the crowd. “Did he  _really_  just declare himself the victor? What an arrogant capital lapdog.” Clearly just another poser from the luxury district who cared more about how his weapon made him look than how to hold it properly.

The career from District 2 was not much better. A tall, muscular fellow that was the epitome of brawn over brains. Deceit merely rolled his eyes, unimpressed as the tribute tried to intimidate the audience. Could this tribute tear Deceit apart with his bare hands? Oh, absolutely. But Deceit would never let him get the chance.

The non-career districts were hardly worth watching. Most of them appeared as nothing more than little lambs, ripe for the slaughter. District 8, the youngest, was sure to gain sympathy votes, but would be picked off soon enough. District 7 had some muscle on his bones, but no more than District 2. The tribute from the coal mines honestly looked like some sort of feral rat, more equivalent to vermin than a worthy opponent.

No, the only one who truly caught Deceit’s attention was the boy from district 3. Logan Ward, the glasses-clad fellow who had volunteered.  _Why_ had he volunteered? Was it to spare a friend’s life? But no, Logan hardly acknowledged the original individual who was chosen as he walked up onto the steps.

Deceit rewound the tape, watching again to analyze his every move. At first glance Logan appeared not to be out of the ordinary, but something about him gave Deceit pause. Underestimating an opponent was the deadliest mistake in the games, and the gleam in Logan’s eye made Deceit wonder if his victory would not be as easily won as he thought. This was going to be more than just a battle royale; this was _chess_ , and Deceit had never lost a match.

“We’re nearing the capital.” His male mentor informed him, glancing out the window. The female mentor from District 4 was there as well, looking quite irate at the lack of female tributes. Still, both mentors seemed competent enough, in their own way. Deceit found himself wondering which underhanded strategy they had used to gain their titles of victor. After all, no one came out of the games with a clean conscious. Thankfully Deceit wasn’t going into the games with one, either.

“You’ll need to establish your rank quickly.” The female mentor spoke up. “The career pack is vital, but district four is often underestimated. If you falter, you’ll quickly be tossed aside.”

Every year the career districts were known to form a pack, and use their superior skill sets to wipe out the competition before inevitably turning on each other. Deceit intended to keep to this tradition, as he had no problems stabbing a career in the back when it came down to the final days. In fact, Deceit reveled in the idea, knowing it would make good coverage in the eyes of a gamekeeper.

“I can handle myself.” Deceit assured her, sitting up straight. Deceit had learned quickly that, lacking muscle of his own, manipulation was his key to success. It would only be a matter of hours before Deceit had every tribute wrapped around his little finger.

He gazed out the window, watching the gleaming city coming rapidly into view. The glittering skyscrapers were probably meant to bestow a feeling of awe and nationalism, but Deceit merely found the architecture distasteful.

“First we’ll be heading to meet your stylist.” The male mentor glanced at the itinerary. “You’ll need to be prepped for the opening ceremonies.”

Deceit nearly groaned at the reminder, having almost forgotten all the pageantry associated with being a tribute. The ceremonies, the training, the interviews… all of it was so bland. Deceit knew how to weasel his way through a conversation, but the trivial minds of the Capital merely bored him. No matter, Deceit would just have to grin and bear whatever ridiculous contraption his stylist found fitting for his district. The games would be here soon enough.

—————————————————————————————————

“Oooh, yes, you’ll do nicely.” The stylist circled Magenta, looking over his various features. “You’ve got a young face, but decent bone structure. You might even stand a chance.”

Magenta stood perfectly still, his eyes following the stylist. He felt as though he was being encircled by sharks. What sort of getup would they throw him in before waltzing him around onstage? District 8 was famous for having ridiculous outfits, a nod to the textile industry. Magenta had seen older tributes look more like a pile of quilts than a stone blooded killer.

“Now now, don’t look so timid!” The stylist laughed, putting his hand beneath Magenta’s chin so the twelve-year-old was forced to meet his gaze. “I’ve spent plenty of time in the capitol, I know what makes those crowds go nuts. We’re going to doll you up, make you look fabulous.”

“You’re going to make me into a prop.” Magenta corrected.

“It’s better to be a prop than a corpse.” The stylist reminded him, causing him to shudder. “I’m here to help you, kid. Sponsorships make the victor. You need to stand out in the crowd or none of the viewers will care about you.”

“And how do I do that?” Magenta asked, rubbing at his chin as it was finally released. “Act small and meek? Try not to look like prey?”

“Please, that’s been there, done that.” The stylist scoffed. “ _Booooo-ring._  No, you need a name for yourself, a brand if you will. It’s right there in your name:  _Magenta_. We’ll capitalize on it. From now on, everything from the tips of your shoes to the tips of your hair will be in that magnificent hue.”

“…great.” Magenta winced. He was going to die as a crayon.

It ended up looking just as ridiculous as he thought. While the stylists cooed over him in the mirror, Magenta could only grimace. He didn’t recognize himself at all. They had put some sort of Botox in his cheeks to make them more visible, and now Magenta hesitantly touched at it, trying to find something familiar in his reflection.

The other tributes seemed to find his new regalia just as humorous, all pointing and snickering behind his back. Some even gave him looks of pity. Of course, as soon as his chariot rounded the gates, he soon realized his stylist might have been right. The crowd went wild, all screaming with glee at his new hair color.

“He’s so  _cute_!” “Look at his hair!” “HA- Magenta, that’s marvelous!”

Magenta grinned, basking in the glory. He put his hands to his mouth, blowing kisses at the ones who made the comments. The women nearly fainted, fanning their faces. It seemed out here Magenta was not out of place, as several of the citizens liked to embellish themselves in ridiculous hues. They got a kick out of Magenta’s outfit, seeing it as a nod to their rainbow culture.

“Ooooh, looks like someone’s a crowd favorite!” The announcer’s voice echoed through the bleachers.

Magenta stood taller, giving a dazzling smile. Perhaps he stood a chance in these games after all, if so many people were cheering his name. He could feel several of the more handsome tributes glaring daggers into his back, but Magenta knew that his focus had to be on entertaining his newfound fans.

——————————————————————————————-

Patton walked into the first day of training, taking a deep breath. It felt a bit like the first day of school, but with more murderous intent. He tried to smile and wave at the other tributes, but many of them either scowled or cowered.

_Okay…so much for killing them with kindness._

Patton liked to believe everyone was a good person. When he looked out on the wave of faces, he didn’t see murderers; he just saw a bunch of scared little kids, just like him. Even the careers had to have mercy somewhere in their hearts, even if it was deeply, deeply buried.

It really wasn’t any of the tributes fault, though. Whatever happened in the games, Patton couldn’t blame someone for just doing what it took to try to get home. He knew if he died and came back as a ghost he wouldn’t haunt them, either.

But Patton, unlike many of the poorer district tributes, hadn’t accepted the fact that he was going to die yet. He didn’t want to think about that possibility, of one of these kids skewering him like a kabob. Patton wanted to survive, but he also didn’t want to kill anybody, so his only hope was surviving until his peers died of natural causes, which wasn’t a very nice thing to hope for at all so Patton tried not to think about that either.

Instead, Patton thought about knots. He focused at his station, tying knot after knot and feeling his stomach twisting in much the same way. The loneliness was really the worst part. With a friend, maybe this would be bearable.

“Other way.”

“Huh?” Patton looked up, having heard the kid next to him speak. The kid shrunk back a bit but pointed at Patton’s rope.

“You’re twisting it the wrong way.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” Patton gave him a large grin, fixing his rope.

The boy blushed. “Yeah, no problem.”

“What’s your name? My name’s Patton.” Patton set down his rope, sticking out his hand.

“I’m Emile.” Emile shook it tentatively. “You’re the boy from eleven, right?”

“Yup! And you’re ten?” Patton guessed, getting a nod in response. “Hey, that’s awesome! We’re like the food district twins.”

“I mean, I guess so.” Emile shrugged.

“Do you like food?” Patton asked earnestly.

Emile gave him a strange look. “…yes?”

“That’s great!” Patton cheered. “I _love_  food! We have so much in common.” Emile chuckled at his silly enthusiasm, and Patton knew his strategy was working. “Say, if we both love food so much, maybe we should eat lunch together. What do ya say?”

“…works for me.” Emile agreed. Internally, Patton was throwing a party, pleased to have made his first Ally. With any luck, Emile would be far from the last.


	3. The Alliances Begin

Emile looked down at his lunch, some sort of fancy meat dish made by the capital with a red sauce. However, as the burgundy liquid pooled, Emile couldn’t help but picture it as blood. And then it became  _his_  blood, and his fingers were covered in it and it wouldn’t stop coming and a career was cackling over him ominously…

“-mile?” Patton’s gentle voice finally broke through his daydream. “Can I have my arm back?”

“Oh, sorry.” Emile winced, letting go of Patton’s arm. He wasn’t aware he had reached out in the first place.

“It’s okay.” Patton assured him, feeling the eyes of the Peacekeepers watching them. “You didn’t hurt me.” It was against the rules for a tribute to harm another before the games, but thankfully Emile’s nails hadn’t dug deep enough to do any damage.

“Thank goodness.” Emile gave him a soft smile. Patton was such an unlikely find. Emile had never expected to make friends coming into the games, but here he was- actually having fun goofing off with someone just days before he was going to die. What a crazy world they lived in.

A sudden gasp from Patton startled Emile out of his daydreaming. “Oh, my goodness gracious, you know what I just realized we are?”

“…tributes?” Emile tried, hoping Patton hadn’t somehow gotten brain damaged. That would certainly hurt them in the games, where they had already decided to form an alliance.

“Glasses bros!” Patton squealed, tilting his glasses up and down for emphasis.

“Oh my goodness, yeah!” Emile chuckled, having not noticed that. “I guess we are.”

“We should grow our little glasses alliance.” Patton hummed, looking out at the lunch room that was slowly dwindling as tributes went back to training.

“Uh…are you sure that’s a good idea?” Emile winced.

“Why not? The more friends the merrier.” Patton shrugged, seeming aloof.

 _Yeah, more friends you’ll have to watch die._  Emile kept that thought to himself. He already knew he was going to die, but at this point he was just rooting for Patton to survive. Emile knew Patton was too pure to win the games, but he was also too pure to be slaughtered like this. A perfect ray of sunshine that was doomed to be covered by storm clouds.

“What about that one?” Patton tugged Emile along. “He’s wearing glasses. Er, sunglasses. Hello!”

“Ugh, unsubscribe.” Remy, the district nine boy, rolled his eyes and pushed right past them towards the door.

“…I don’t think you’re going to find anyone like us.” Emile admitted. Everyone in the games either was a Debbie downer waiting solemnly for execution, or…Emile shuddered…a career. How terrible to think there were kids his own age who actually  _wanted_ to murder others and had even volunteered to be here. It made Emile’s stomach churn.

“Oh wait, he’s wearing glasses too.” Patton pointed to the boy from district three, now sitting alone. Patton walked right up, sitting across from him. When the boy didn’t react, Emile hesitantly followed suit.

“Hi there!” Patton stuck out his hand. “I’m Patton.”

“District 11.” The tribute corrected, clearly not caring for naming his fellow tributes.

“Patton.” Patton repeated, sticking his hand out further. The boy didn’t look up, continuing to fiddle with a device in his hands. Slowly, Patton lowered his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Seems irrelevant to learn the names of individuals I will only know for a few days.” He finally gave them a glance. “I suggest you adopt the same philosophy.”

“Um, do you want to join our alliance?” Emile asked timidly.

“Hardly.” He scoffed.

“O-oh.” Emile shrunk back in his seat. Of course, Patton was undeterred.

“We’re calling it the glasses bros.” Patton informed him. This gave him pause.

“You approached me because I wear spectacles?” He looked up, raising a judgmental eyebrow.

“Yup, we figured us four-eyes have to stick together.” Patton giggled.

“How quaint.” He turned back to the device. “Perhaps your little alliance will spare you for a few days, but it would cause you less pain to submit during the initial massacre.”

Emile reeled back, shocked at his blatant attitude. He wasn’t the only one.

“What is your problem?” Patton frowned.

“It’s our reality.” The boy shrugged. “I don’t understand why you’re attempting to make social connections when we’re nothing more than glorified sacrifices.”

“Well that doesn’t mean we have to act like it!” Patton huffed, frustrated tears coming to his eyes. “You’re so cruel. If we’re all going to die, we might as well die being nice to each other!”

“Patton, c’mon.” Emile hurriedly tugged Patton along, not wanting to cause a scene. “We should get back to training.”

—————————————————————————————————–

Peter looked around the training ground, eyeing the competition during the second day. The careers were in the middle of the room, at the weapons station while showing off. Everyone else was cowering, choosing the frilly stations like first aid or plant identification instead. Well, that certainly wouldn’t do. The careers had been hogging the axe station yesterday as well, and Peter had his own flexing to do.

Of course, if he was planning on making enemies (which he was), Peter knew it would be best to make an ally or two as well. He smirked, spotting his target already trying to secretly eye him.

“Hey, kid.” Peter greeted, walking up to the Capital’s little poster boy. An alignment with _him_  was sure to win Peter some favors, not to mention the bonus that there was no way a runt like that could ever turn on him. “What’s your name again?”

The kid gave him an odd look, slowly pointing up to his purple hair. “…Magenta.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve got the whole matchy-matchy thing.” Peter smiled. It was a tacky look, one Peter found particularly distasteful, but Magenta didn’t seem to0 fond of it either. “I’m Peter. Want to be Allies?”

“My mentor said not to make allies.” Magenta eyed his hand wearily.

“Well your mentor’s full of shit.” Peter shrugged. “I figure, you get us sponsors, and I’ll make sure you don’t die.”

“Until you stab me in the back.” Magenta muttered.

“Hey, come on, I’m serious.” Peter pressed on. “I’ll prove it by showing you my secrets. You ever thrown an axe before?”

“Uh…no.” Magenta admitted, looking over Peter’s shoulder at the axe station. “But the careers have a monopoly on that station. You can’t exactly go over there.”

“Sure I can.” Peter turned on his heel, ignoring the way Magenta sucked in a nervous breath.

Peter waltzed up, joining the boy from district 2, Nate if he remembered. Nate growled at him, but Peter didn’t back off. He knew despite Nate being taller and bigger he wouldn’t dare start a fight in the training room. No, the mess-making had to be saved for the training field.

“This station’s taken.” Nate informed him.

“Oh, is it?” Peter pretended to look surprised. He picked up an axe, hefting it in his hand. Being from the Lumber district, it felt familiar. “You don’t seem to be using it.”

“I was just warming up.” Nate huffed, reeling his arm back to throw. However, before the axe even left his hand there was a sharp thud of metal embedding itself in wood. Where Nate had been aiming Peter had lodged his axe, a perfect bullseye.

A clattering was heard behind him, likely that Prince boy dropping his sword in shock. Peter smirked, pleased to see the look on Nate’s face was just as satisfying as he had hoped. If Nate hadn’t wanted to tear him to shreds before, he definitely wanted to now.

“Too slow.” Peter teased, quickly waltzing away. He didn’t want to push his luck, now that he had accomplished his goal.

Peter made his way back over to Magenta, grinning at the way the kid was gaping like a fish. This time, when he stuck his hand out, all Magenta did was give it a good shake.

—————————————————————————————————–

“That boy made a fool of you.” Deceit observed, looking across the cafeteria on the second day. Nate gripped his silverware tighter, bending the metal.

“I’m  _aware_.” Nate said through gritted teeth. The event was still fresh in his mind, having occurred just moments ago. “You don’t have to keep reminding me. The second we hit the field, his ass is mine.”

“What, are we claiming kills already?” Roman gazed around the lunchroom. Most of the other tributes sat alone, or in sad little clumps trying to form alliances as if that would save them from the career pack. “I call…12. And 9. Ooooh, no no no, 8.”

“As if you’re going to get to him before me.” Nate smirked, looking him up and down. “Poster Boy is  _mine_. And I bet I get twice as many kills as you.”

Roman let out a princely noise of offense. “I’ll have you know,  _finesse_  is far more valuable than brute force.”

“Maybe for a ballerina, not for a victor.”

“Blasphemy!”

Deceit groaned, putting his head in his hands. He was surrounded by idiots.

There was a clattering next to them as someone put their tray down at their table. All three careers looked up, watching as the boy from district 3 sat down. He did not even acknowledge this was a strange occurrence, starting in on his lunch.

“…can we help you?” Roman said finally, leaning away from the non-career invading his privacy.

“Yes.” The tribute said, setting down his sandwich. He stuck out his hand, unperturbed at the way Roman grimaced at the offered appendage. “Logan Ward. Pleasure to be working with you.”

“Is this your way of trying to join the popular crowd?” Nate raised an eyebrow.

“Not trying, succeeding.” Logan said, once again ignoring the way Nate scoffed at his statement. “District 3 is among the wealthier districts and has not been unknown to participate in the career pack.”

“Is that why you volunteered- to get near me?” Roman teased, batting his eyelashes. “Sorry, but I’m not accepting secret admirers now.”

“That statement is ludicrous; how would I possibly know you were reaped when the reapings don’t go public until after they are all completed?” Logan frowned at Roman.

“Okay, can’t take a joke, noted.” Roman rolled his eyes, turning back to his own food.

“And why exactly should we accept you into our ranks?” Deceit leaned forwards, looking at Logan intently.

“I doubt you’ve received the same training it takes to get to our level of skill.” Nate pressed on, following Deceit’s lead and leaning in. Even Roman perked up, listening intently in a not subtle fashion.

“Disregarding the fact that preparation prior to the reaping is illegal, and the fact that there are numerous occasions where career training has proven to only work against tributes in actual competition, I assure you I am an asset.” Logan explained. “The games are a system of augmented reality. Every item that can be interacted with is, in one way or another, tied to the Capital’s grid, which I have been studying for the past several years.”

“Oh yeah, you’re from the nerd district.” Roman snickered.

“Yes.” Logan gave him a slight glare. “I’m from the ‘nerd’ district. Technology and electronics.”

“Every tribute from district 3 must have been doing the same thing.” Nate narrowed his gaze. “What makes you so special?”

“This.” Logan pulled what looked to be a modified teaching pad stolen from the training room. Before the careers could ask any questions, Logan was typing away at it. “Anyone who controls the grid, even the smallest chunk of it, controls the game.”

Suddenly, the cafeteria was plunged into darkness. A few screams were heard, the other cowardly tributes frightened by the change. Peacekeepers were shouting, trying to get the situation back under control. Nate couldn’t help but be impressed, thrilled by the single moment of chaos. He wasn’t the only one.

“Well, well, well.” Despite not being visible, it was obvious Deceit was grinning. “I think I speak for everyone when I say, welcome to the team.”

Two hands met in the darkness to give a firm shake.


End file.
